


the hardest part's the awful things that I've seen

by boykingofhell (alloftimeandspace)



Series: Codependency, Winchester Style [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Codependency, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mentions of Jess, Protective Dean Winchester, Suicidal Sam, Suicidal Thoughts, Wincest - Freeform, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 01:06:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9524780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alloftimeandspace/pseuds/boykingofhell
Summary: Sam grieves for Jess





	

Dean found him sitting at the table near the window in the motel room with a gun pressed against his temple and his back to the door, silently praying for the courage to pull the trigger, fingers twitching dangerously, whisky sloshing in his otherwise empty belly, staring impassively at empty air. The neon of the motel sign towering over the building broke through the near transparent curtains, drawing a glowing green line down Sam’s stoic face where the curtains didn’t quite meet. In Dean’s defense, he didn’t freak out, at least not outwardly. 

“Sammy,” he murmured lowly from the doorway, voice steady and slow. “Put the gun down.” 

Sam ignored the command, unmoving in the chair as the cold metal barrel bore a ring into his forehead, tremors running like aftershocks of an earthquake through his body. His expression was eerily blank, looking dazedly at the curtained window but seeing nothing. He was adrift in the hell in his own head, starry eyed gaze unblinking, unfocused, so lost that Dean could practically see the fog blurring the edges of Sam’s thoughts, encasing his whole body in a muddled haze. 

Dean crossed the room unsteadily, silently; Sam felt his calloused fingers wrapping around the handle of the gun, stolen from Dean’s duffel bag, before he registered Dean’s presence at his back, prying the gun gingerly from Sam’s stiff grasp. Sam didn’t have the energy to fight back; he let Dean take the gun from him without a word, without moving, without turning to meet his emerald gaze, knowing the look he’d find on his face. Dean’s freckles would be standing out darkly on his cheeks and the gently sloping curve of his nose, his cheeks would be ruddy pink, frown lines creasing too deep in his forehead for one so young, bright green eyes glazed over with the drinks he’d had that night, staring intently at his little brother, trying to make sense of the situation through drunken thoughts. Sam sunk back into his head, flames licked at his psyche even as his blood ran cold, visions of curly blonde hair and a soft pink smile a lightning strike through his brain. He heard the faint rustle of the bag behind him, breaking through the quiet, lilting voice in his head, feminine and familiar, singing quietly to him in the lost tones of a lullaby, the kind she’d sing when he was panicking which happened more often than he would’ve like to admit; Dean was burying the offending gun beneath the rest of the bag’s contents, his ratty jeans and faded tshirts tossed haphazardly into the bag, contrasting Sam’s neatly folded clothes in his own bag. 

Padded footsteps, barely audible on the carpet, crossed the room again, a warm hand dropped to rest on Sam’s shoulder, coaxed him gently out of the chair, Sam’s sluggish muscles bending like a rag doll to Dean’s prompting. 

“Let’s go to bed, Sammy,” Dean whispered, guiding him forcefully towards the closest of the two twin beds. 

They hadn’t shared a bed since Sam had come back from Stanford; he kept his distance from Dean and Dean had let him be, until now. Sam fought weakly against Dean’s grasp, the guiding hand splayed across his back, seeping warmth against his skin. “I don’t-” he protested feebly. “You need sleep,” Dean said firmly, dropping his hand to wrap around Sam’s waist, smaller than it had been the last time his hand had rested there; Sam had been shrinking inward lately, though he was taller than Dean, but Dean’s grip was unyielding, pushing Sam towards the bed and maneuvering him, long, lanky limbs, onto the mattress and underneath the covers, and then climbing deftly in beside him. 

The bed was far too small for the two of them to share it, but Dean seemed reluctant to let go of Sam, cradling him in his arms in the middle of the bed as they tangled around each other, the movement second nature. Sam buried his face in Dean’s chest, breathed in the smell of Coke and whisky and drug store shampoo, felt the worn fabric of Dean’s crimson thrift store flannel rubbing soft against his stubbled cheek. He was numb, the overwhelming sensation to cry locked heavy in his chest; he couldn’t cry, couldn’t get a word out, laying shivering in Dean’s arms with tears gathering in his eyes and sticking lightly to his lashes but never falling.

“De-” he started finally, but Dean shushed him, stroked a hand through the messy waves of his hair, curling softly at the nape of his neck. 

“Sleep, Sammy,” he mumbled, dropping a light kiss on Sam’s forehead. 

Sam tried to capture his thoughts, running wild in his mind, but the only word that broke through the barrier in his head, spilling from the twisted curve of his mouth, was _Jess_ , breathed out in a vicious, desperate plea, visions of fire burnt into the images behind his eyelids, the acrid burning smell of smoke curling around him and delving into his lungs, choking him. He coughed, gasped desperately for air, writhing in Dean’s embrace; whether he was trying to break free or beg for help, he didn’t know. Dean’s grasp on him tightened, pulling him closer, hands dancing lightly over his cotton tshirt, stretched across the skeleton of his back in an effort to quiet him.

“Breathe,” Dean mumbled, taking deep, deliberate breaths in effort to pacify Sam, who tried in vain to follow the movement of Dean’s concave chest, strong and safe and warm despite the chill in his bones, the chill in the room, the chill seeping through the singular window, slipping in beneath the crack of the door, the cracks in the faded walls. 

His fingers twitched, he ached to strike a match against the rotted flesh of his skin, stretched too tight across his sore bones, could smell the gasoline flames, the sulfur tangling with his red hot memories.“

Sleep,” Dean urged him again, almost frantically. “Please.” 

Sam could feel himself shaking, his body trembling, shivers trailing up his spine, vaguely aware that he was shaking his head desperately in answer to Dean’s request. 

“It’s okay,” Dean whispered, sounding more as if he were reassuring himself than Sam. “You’re okay. Just sleep.” 

Dean’s fingers continued to caress him gently, rubbing gently at his hollowed back, putting subtle pressure against his temples, soothing him into an uneasy rest, worried face lit in the dim glow of the cars passing outside the window, the light passing through the thin curtain, highlighting the dips and shadows on his skin, making him look even more frail, even more fragile. He could feel the warmth of Dean’s breath on his cheek, steady in and out, rise and fall of his chest, his strong arms wrapped firmly around Sam’s thin frame as he started to drift out of consciousness, exhausted, thoughts finally stopping, mind going blissfully black as he rested in the safety of his big brother’s strong arms and silently hoped he wouldn’t wake up again in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on tumblr - http://demonblood-boyking.tumblr.com/  
> // currently taking fic requests //


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